Might Have Been
by xxBardApprenticexx
Summary: Post Revelations 6:8, Duncan reflects on what Might Have Been. Friendship fic. Non-slash version of 'One Not-Lonely Night'. Warning: Angst be here.


**'Ello Again!**

**Well, a recent blast from the past has me on a Highlander kick recently, so to sate the beast I put this together. It's rushed and not quite refined, but I'm forcing myself to look the other way for now. **

**This is the non-slash, friendship-oriented version, for those who prefer such. **

**Title: Might Have Been  
Characters: Duncan MacLeod, Methos  
Rated: K+  
Summary: Post-Revelations 6:8, Duncan reflects on what Might Have Been. Friendship fic, angst.**

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_"What took you so long?" _

_Duncan sighed with relief as he recognized the intruder sprawled on his couch. _

_"Oh, I'm sorry. If I'd known you were going to _break into my house_, I would have been home earlier to greet you!" He griped, too amused to pull off the biting tone he wanted. _

_"I'm flattered. You're out of beer, again, by the way." Methos remarked flippantly, returning his attention to Duncan's TV. The highlander huffed, a pleased smile fighting to turn up the corners of his mouth, and turned to the kitchen area. _

_"Of course I am. What's brought you 'round this time?" He called over his shoulder as he unpacked and stored the groceries he'd just bought. _

_"Andy Dennison died a terrible death in Vienna yesterday. I was driven to come here to share in my mourning of his tragic passing. Such a fantastic guy." The ancient immortal sniffed dramatically, wiping an imagined tear from his eye, all without ever looking away from the television. _

_"Oh, yes. Such a loss for us all." Duncan deadpanned, crumpling the now-empty paper bag and tossing it playfully at his impromptu guest's head. He chuckled at the offended glare shot his way and moved to fall onto the free end of the couch. He grimaced briefly as Methos' feet settled onto his thighs, but quickly forgot any discomfort as he relaxed into the easy connection between them as they watched a random movie in silence. _

_"Bloody idiots can't even get the Apache right. That was only a few hundred years ago!" _

_Well, relative silence. Duncan laughed as the oldest immortal launched into a lively tale of tomahawks and misunderstandings._

Duncan chuckled sadly as he remembered that wonderful day so long ago. As an Immortal who had lived over four centuries, he probably shouldn't consider a few months a long time, but so much had happened since then.

He looked to the couch, which was bare of blankets and even pillows, the emptiness tearing painfully at his heart. He used to keep spare linens on the arm there, on the off chance his mysterious disappearing friend showed up. It had been a silent invitation, belaying every one of Duncan's token complaints.

There was no need for them now, the linens or the invitation. Probably never would be again, if he was brutally honest with himself.

Honesty hurt.

Turning away from the mocking reminder, he stalked to the fridge instead. Rifling through the sparse fare he found, Duncan could find nothing that interested him. It seemed nothing could, now that he'd…

Duncan savagely beat that train of thought down into submission and tried to slam the refrigerator door. A clink of glass blocked the effort and caught his attention. Leaning down to pick up the dark bottle, Duncan swallowed hard as he recognized one of Methos' favored brews.

_"Oh, come on, MacLeod. I want something that was meant to be drunk, not swill made to clear drains and dissolve flesh. Grab your coat. We're going to get _real_ liquid refreshment." _

_"I'm not taking you to the store so you can buy fancy beer and fill my fridge with it." _

_"Of course not. The store's too far. And who said I was buying, anyway? Thank the gods for Joe Dawson!" _

_"You are terrible, old man!" _

_"C'mon, Highlander! Move your pretty-boy arse!"_

A crash startled Duncan from his memory, and he nearly lunged for his sword. But the katana was out of reach, left in his jacket by the door, and there was something wet soaking into his bared socks.

Looking down in bafflement, the Highlander was shocked to find the bottle he'd pulled out of the fridge in shattered chaos on the floor, a pool of foaming brown liquid creeping between it and the bottoms of his feet.

He'd dropped it. Methos would be screeching in betrayal and disbelief.

But Methos wasn't here.

Only his beer was left to show he ever had been. His spilled beer, bits of broken glass, and Duncan's memories.

He stumbled to the couch and sank down into its comforting embrace. He could see why Methos had always come back to it. It was probably more comfortable than any bed. Duncan toed out of his beer-soak socks and pulled his legs close, curling up in the deep cushions.

How long had it been since he'd sat on his own couch, alone? Had he really become so accustomed to it 'belonging' to Methos? It seemed so. How much longer could that odd, invasive, yet vital relationship have continued if Cassandra had never interfered?

_"MacLeod, you should be a boy scout forever." _

_"What are you on about?" _

_"Keep, sticking your nose in business and, rescuing maidens, and… Just don't change, Duncan. Don't ever change." _

_"…You're drunk." _

_"Maybe. Probably. Only a little. That doesn't mean I don't mean it." _

_"Methos," _

_"Oh, nevermind." _

_"No, wait. You can't just," _

_"Shut up and take your next shot, Highlander."_

Forever. They could have gone on forever. If he had just never known…

No. He wouldn't do this to himself. He wouldn't speculate on how he would have taken it if Methos had told him himself. He wouldn't think about how to contact the old man and ask him to come back. He wouldn't hope for Methos to walk through the doors and tell him it had all been an elaborate prank. And he definitely wouldn't allow himself to completely forgive everything Death had ever done and move on as if none of it had ever happened.

Nope. Not even for one night.

One quiet, not-lonely night, with the smell of beer and a comfortable couch, not-missing the oddest friend he'd ever had, not-regretting what might have been between them. Not. Really, not.

Duncan MacLeod drifted off to sleep, not-dreaming of a cynical, aristocratic, alcoholic, survivalist 5,000 year old man with deep pain in his eyes and deeper kindness in his soul.

Because he was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and he was (_not_) always right.

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**Okay, angst-meter back in use, I know, sorry. My muse (who fancies himself a swordsman at the moment and is waving it around declaring 'there can be only one') seems to have become addicted. I'm looking into rehabs.**

**Anywho, enjoy, let me know how you found it. Ta!**


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